


Better Than Your Worst Day

by iridescentglow



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas is just another day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Your Worst Day

Las Vegas, NV. 2006.

 

_Christmas is just another day_.

Ryan figured he should be used to those words by now. He'd said them a lot over the past month. Well, typed them, mostly. That sad little sentence glaring at him from his Sidekick screen just before he pressed _send_. Sad? Sure. Fucking depressing? That too. "But _true_. I'm fine, Pete," he tersely told his empty apartment as his fingers skimmed across the keys. He wrote, _I'll see you in New York for New Year's_, and then tossed his Sidekick away.

He had been invited all over the country for the holidays and he had—with thinning graciousness—refused every invitation. He didn't want to go through all the rituals (strained gift-giving, _It's A Wonderful Life_, tipsy arguments smoothed over by more alcohol) this year, and least of all in someone else's home.

Ryan sank back into the couch cushions and exhaled. As the air left his lungs, he listened. _Silence_, finally. After the circus (haha) of the tour, all he really wanted for Christmas (haha_ha_) was… quiet. A comforter over his head; the world blocked out for a while.

There was a loud knocking on his door. Ryan breathed in. This time when he exhaled, it was unsteady—frustrated. "Go away," he muttered. He breathed in. More knocking. Out.

"Hey, Ryan!" a voice yelled. "Let me in!" Knock, knock. "I'm gonna drop this stuff. If you end up with coleslaw all over your step, it's not my fault!"

With all the calmness he could muster, Ryan walked to the door. He opened it an inch.

"Brendon," he said in a low voice, "I thought I said—"

"Yeah, yeah." Brendon pushed at the door with his shoulder and bustled—actually _bustled_—past Ryan and into the apartment. "Christmas is just another day. Whatever. Today is Christmas _Eve_. And my mom made all this stuff for you."

With a flourish, Brendon emptied his arms of half-a-dozen Tupperware containers and foil-wrapped packages. They tumbled onto table and—true to form—one of the containers bounced onto the floor, cracked open and spilled a cheerful sludge of vomit-like coleslaw onto the expensive hardwood floor.

"Oops," Brendon said, remorselessly.

Ryan crossed his arms across his chest. "What are you doing here?" he asked shortly. "I'm kinda busy," he added, despite the fact that he was, like, the least busy person in the history of not being busy.

"Yeah, right. You're, like, the least busy—"

"Brendon," Ryan said sharply. "What d'you want?"

"My mom made all this food." Brendon shrugged and began attacking a package of cookies. "These are made with tofu," he said between mouthfuls. "They're pretty good."

For a moment, Ryan's confusion overcame his annoyance. "Why did she make me tofu cookies?"

"I think"—Brendon swallowed hard, licking extravagantly at his bottom lip—"she thinks you're vegan or something."

"Why does she think that?"

"Well." Brendon considered. "She asked what you were doing for Christmas and, you know, I told her the party line." He rolled his eyes and adopted a sarcastic sing-song voice. "_Christmas is just another day_." He paused for breath. "Anyway! She was pretty horrified, so I had to do some damage control."

Ryan was growing increasingly exasperated. "How does that involve me being vegan?"

"Well," Brendon began again. "I was trying to skim over the whole"—he dropped his voice—"_atheist_ thing. Because, I mean, she probably _wouldn't_ come round here and set you on fire. Although, jeez, Christmas makes her kinda crazy so"—he made a face—"can't be too careful. Anyway! I told her you were doing your own thing. Finding your own spiritual path." He grinned. "She liked that one a lot. But I think I went a bit far and made it sound like you'd joined some kind of hippyish cult. And to her that means… veganism."

"Right." Ryan let out a sigh. "Makes perfect sense."

There was a long silence. Brendon continued to eat the tofu cookies. Ryan toed at the puddle of coleslaw, swirling it into a circle using the tip of his Converse.

Brendon's cookie-eating slowed. "You know," he said carefully, "you could still come over for dinner. I can almost _guarantee_ you won't have any fun! It'll suck. It'll be a totally and completely sucky Christmas. Except… you won't have to be alone."

Ryan stared blankly at him.

Brendon hurried on, "It wouldn't really be _celebrating_. It would just be… eating! It wouldn't mean any disrespect to your dad's memory, if that's what you think, Ry."

"You think I _want_ this?" Ryan exploded. "You think I want to stay holed up like this? I would rather be _anywhere_ else! But I have to…" He was aware of himself running out of steam, the anger draining from his body. "I need to…" He mouthed the word _fuck_ and turned away.

It was almost a full minute before he managed to say, "Just leave me alone, Brendon. I'm fine."

Ryan heard the hollow ring to his voice, but he didn't care. He just wanted the warmth of his bed; heavy silence like a blanket.

 

*

Ryan's apartment was blank—stylishly so. He had bought it using his first royalties check. The realtor had advised him to keep it neutrally decorated, uncluttered, minimize wear and tear. That way he could flip it for a nice profit in a few years' time. It was a pretty good excuse—to not paint the walls; to not buy anything except IKEA furniture. Part of him was just waiting for Tyler Durden to show up and blow it all to hell, but even if he didn't, Ryan would be able to sell his apartment, make a profit, and all without developing any emotional connection to the place. It was fine.

His bed was like a island in the middle of his empty bedroom. He'd deliberately pushed it away from the walls; he enjoyed the incongruity, the way it dominated the space. He had been dating Jac at the time he'd bought the apartment and she had helped him move in—if sneeringly second-guessing every decision he made counted as helping.

"You're not gonna buy a _wardrobe_ even? Where are you gonna put your _clothes_?" she'd asked, meaning, _where am I gonna put_ my _clothes?_

"'s why they call it living out of a suitcase," he had mumbled.

Also on the list of things he'd rejected: curtains, cushions, striped teddy bear, bedside table, lamp.

(For the record, top of the list of things _she_ had rejected: him.)

 

Ryan woke up in his big island-bed on Christmas morning and felt… alone. It was a precise, irrefutable feeling, like the beginnings of the flu. Because he had no curtains, a bright shaft of sunshine entered his room, blinding him, and sending him burrowing back under the covers. Sleep came easily, even though he was no longer tired. When he awoke a second time, it was to the sound of his front door banging open.

Also on the list of things he'd rejected for his bedroom: anything that could be used to defend himself against a home invader.

…_shit_. He sat up in bed. As far as lame ways to die went, being killed in his bed by an intruder on the first Christmas after his father died was very possibly something that even the _CSI_ writers would reject.

"There's nothing to steal!" he yelled, entirely truthfully. He sank back into bed with a defeated sigh.

Brendon poked his head around the bedroom door. "Sure there is! Your soul. Your _virtue_." Brendon shot him a filthy look and then continued, "And my mom's food. Which, by the way, you should probably call and thank her for. Otherwise she'll ask God to smite you—and just between you and me, I think he's kind of in her pocket."

Ryan squinted up at Brendon. "How did you get in here?"

"I stole your key yesterday," Brendon said cheerfully. He added, "And the fact that you never even _noticed_ means that you haven't left your apartment in, like, 24 hours." He gave Ryan a disapproving look.

"That's, like, a massive invasion of privacy," Ryan said faintly.

"Oh, whatever. What's a little B an' E between friends?" Brendon sat down on Ryan's bed and bounced lightly. "I knew you'd just stay indoors and _cry_ all day if I didn't come over."

"I'm not _crying_." Ryan frowned. "I was trying to _sleep_."

"It's four in the afternoon! I've been up since _six_, fucker. My little cousin invited all her friends round and they _used_ me as jukebox and pulled my hair when I tried to leave the room!"

Ryan smiled in spite of himself. "You loved it," he said.

Brendon grinned. "Whatever."

They lapsed into silence, until Brendon began untying his shoes. He shrugged out of his jacket and began burrowing under the comforter. "Scoot over," he muttered, and when Ryan didn't move, he swatted at him. "_Move_."

Warily, Ryan rolled over, onto the left side of the bed. He closed his eyes, feeling the soft bounce of the mattress as Brendon fitted himself into place behind Ryan. Brendon accidentally kicked him and Ryan retaliated, making a face. Finally, the mattress stilled, and Ryan felt the warm, solid weight of Brendon behind him; the warm pool of breath on his neck as Brendon adjusted his voice to a whisper.

"You sure you're okay, man?"

Ryan smiled absently. Only Brendon was capable of snuggling next to him and then calling him _man_ as some misplaced assertion of masculinity. "Yeah, man," he said, only lightly mocking, "I'm fine."

Brendon's voice in his ear was serious. "Yeah, but really. You're not fine, you're not fine at all."

Ryan was glad he didn't have to look at Brendon. He sighed. "I just wanna sleep. I just wanna sleep and feel better."

"You know, there are other ways—more _fun_ ways to feel better," Brendon said suggestively. Ryan felt a light snap at the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Shut up," Ryan mumbled, trying unsuccessfully to keep the smile out of his voice.

"Okay, okay. We'll sleep. You and me. World-class sleeping. Sleeping for America."

"I usually see sleeping as kind of a solitary activity," Ryan said, even as he leaned into the slight nuzzle of Brendon's cheek against his neck.

"Nope," Brendon said resolutely, "not anymore. It's you and me, buddy. We'll visit each other in our dreams. Go dream kayaking, play dream volleyball, go see the dream Beatles reunion tour. It'll be awesome."

Ryan felt the heavy promise of sleep seeping through his limbs; the warmth of Brendon's words filling his head. He smiled and murmured, "Okay."

**Author's Note:**

> I mishear All-American Rejects song lyrics and use them for my fic titles. Good times!
> 
> Written for lolapalooza as part of the damnyouwentz Secret Santa thingamajig.


End file.
